


a story about two boys (hope is all we've got)

by endlessnighttimesky



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Sex, Hotel Sex, M/M, Orgasm Control, Shower Sex, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:32:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnighttimesky/pseuds/endlessnighttimesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank can still feel the fatigue at the back of his mind, but just the thought of being fucked into a hotel bed instead of the backseat of a dingy Honda is enough to make him feel a little more awake.</p><p>“What?” he asks incredulously, when he sees Pete’s smile falter slightly.</p><p>“It’s an all-nighter,” Pete says, and okay, so Frank maybe wasn’t up for that originally, but hey, hotel beds. He can sacrifice himself.</p><p>"I'll take it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a story about two boys (hope is all we've got)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so massive thanks (and my undying love) goes to [Raquel](http://toromg.tumblr.com), because she pretty much came up with the whole plot, so this is my Christmas present to her. Merry Christmas, babe; here, have some porn.

Frank just wants to go home. He wants to go home, take Sweet Pea for a walk and then crawl beneath the warm covers of his bed and just _sleep_.

Okay, so his bed will probably be cold, and Sweet Pea has most likely already fallen asleep and won’t be up for anything remotely similar to a walk, but that doesn’t stop Frank from wanting to join her.

His back is hurting, and his ass even more so, and his lungs are aching in that way they always do when the weather goes from blisteringly hot to freezing cold in less than a week. He simply doesn’t fancy the idea of standing in a street corner until four in the morning, only to be picked up by some sleazy, rich guy with daddy issues he feels he can only solve by fucking Frank until he’s sore.

That’s why Frank is lucky he’s got Pete, because unlike Frank, Pete actually keeps track of how much money Frank makes, which results in him always knowing when Frank can afford to turn down a client.

“Not tonight,” Pete says when Frank walks into his office with a pleading look on his face. “Sorry, man, but if you wanna keep feeding that dog, you should stay out for a few more hours.”

Frank scowls and slumps into the chair in front of Pete’s desk. “I’ll go in a few minutes,” he mutters, sinking lower in the chair and pulling his hoodie over his head. Give him enough time, he could probably fall asleep there.

“Sure,” Pete says, shooting Frank a sympathetic smile before he goes to pick up the ringing phone. Frank can’t stop himself from returning it, because with Pete it’s always _should_ , never _have to_ , and Frank doesn’t know how to describe how much he loves that about Pete. All he knows is that he’d probably cry if Pete would ever go out of business.

Frank listens sleepily to Pete taking calls for a few minutes, but then Pete kicks his foot under the desk, and he forces himself to straighten his position in the chair. He looks up at Pete, who’s still got the phone pressed to his ear, but he’s glancing at it and making hand gestures that Frank now knows means that Pete’s got a client for him.

“Where?” Frank asks as soon as Pete hangs up.

“The Hilton,” Pete answers with a smirk, knowing he pretty much just made Frank’s day.

“Sweet,” Frank says. He can still feel the fatigue at the back of his mind, but just the thought of being fucked into a hotel bed instead of the backseat of a dingy Honda is enough to make him feel a little more awake.

“What?” he asks incredulously, when he sees Pete’s smile falter slightly.

“It’s an all-nighter,” Pete says, and okay, so Frank maybe wasn’t up for that originally, but hey, _hotel beds_. He can sacrifice himself.

“I’ll take it,” Frank says, trying to focus on the wad of bills he’ll walk home with tomorrow, instead of the sickly feeling in his stomach he always gets after he spends an entire night with someone he’ll probably never meet again.

Pete looks at him for a while more, silently asking if Frank’s sure about this.

“You said I needed the money, right?” Frank asks, eyebrows raised questioningly.

“Yeah,” Pete admits, and it’s with resignation he hands Frank a Post-It with all the details.

“I’ll be back tomorrow with the cash,” Frank says as he heads out.

“Be sure to sleep first!” Pete calls after him. Frank does what he hopes is a reassuring hand gesture in his direction.

When he gets out onto the street, it’s raining, but Frank doesn’t let it ruin his mood. Okay, so maybe there wasn’t much of a mood to ruin, but he can practically _feel_ the king size mattress against his back, and that’s enough to keep him going.

He’s pretty sure he looks like a drenched cat once he reaches the hotel. The people behind the reception desk all give him the stink eye, but they know not to kick him out, or there’s a pretty big chance they’ll lose a customer at the same time.

He makes his way over to the elevators, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind him. Taking the Post-It out of his pocket, he checks what floor he’s going to before pressing the button.

When Frank steps out, it’s obvious that his client is of the richer variety, because he’s pretty sure this floor only holds suites, as opposed to regular rooms. He doesn’t know if he should be excited because he’ll probably leave this hotel quite a lot richer than he came in, or if he should be put off because usually, the richer a client is, the more of an asshole they are. Frank knows he’s no one to judge (and not because he’s a hooker, but because he can be an asshole himself when the time is right), but that’s just facts.

Frank wanders around the floor for a while, dragging his feet on the fancy carpet and running his hands over the wooden panels before he finds his client’s room. He presses a finger to the doorbell ( _doorbell_ , what the actual fuck?), and contemplates straightening up his appearance, but according to experience, he won’t even have any clothes on to adjust in a few minutes, so why bother.

But then the door opens, and he suddenly feels like an idiot in his torn leather jacket and damp t-shirt.

The guy in front of him is wearing pretty much the same as Frank; a band t-shirt (Iron Maiden, fuck, Frank is _lucky_ ) and skinny jeans. He’s only missing the jacket – and well, the layer of filth Frank has gathered from various bathroom stalls and backseats. The guy is covered in another kind of dirt, though; there are flecks of paint on his hands, reds and blues stuck under his nails. There’s even some on his neck.

Then there's the hair. Frank doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone with hair like his client’s, and he’s hung out with the drag queens in Greenwich Village, okay? But no, this guy’s hair is white, not like, platinum, but pure fucking white, and it’s cropped short all the way around, The most astounding thing though, is how well he wears it. It brings out his hazel eyes, his pale skin, those red lips that Frank just wants on his, right the fuck now, _please_.

Wow. Okay, so usually Frank tends to stay away from his client’s mouths, since his health is already shitty enough. He doesn’t need oral herpes from some sleaze in a back alley, thank you very much. Most of his clients are new to the whole prostitution business anyway, and so it’s usually pretty easy to convince them that the no-kissing rule from the movies applies even in real life.

But now, for probably the first time in Frank’s trick-turning life, all he wants to do is to kiss. If it was up to him, that’s all they’d do, all night long. Just sit on the couch, wrapped around each other and attached by the mouth, or maybe in bed, Frank’s leg slung over the guy’s hips as their lips work against each other.

But it isn’t up to Frank, it never has been and probably never will be, and tonight is no exception. The customer is always right, and all that crap.

“You ordered me,” Frank says as he snaps himself out of his train of thought. It’s not something he would say otherwise, but this guy is doing something to Frank, something that’s rendering him incapable of delivering the usual bullshit lines he gives his clients.

The guy’s lips quirk into a sly, though somewhat nervous, smile. “When you say it like that it sounds pretty disgusting.”

Frank shrugs and pushes past the guy, walking into the room. “It usually is,” he says easily as he looks around what seems to be the living room of the suite. It’s bigger that Frank’s entire apartment, and the size seems to have a strange effect on Frank, as if the bigger the space he gets fucked in, the bigger his confidence gets. Or maybe it’s the promise of a warm bed and fluffy pillows that’s inflating his ego so much.

He hears the door close from behind him, then a questioning, “Usually?”

Frank turns around, glancing at his reflection in the mirror in the ceiling before turning his eyes towards his client. “This isn’t the backseat of a rusty Honda,” he says. “And you’re not a middle aged accountant with a potbelly and male pattern baldness.”

The guy runs a hand through his hair, shuddering a little as if it will fall off just at the mention of baldness. “Thank god, no.”

A silence falls in the room, but it’s distinctly less awkward than with Frank’s regular clients. This guy, it seems, is far from regular.

“So, what d’you wanna do?” Frank asks, putting on the face he reserves for clients and clients only, the sly, seductive smile and the lazy eyes.

His client grins, bringing up a hand to stroke some hair away from Frank’s face. It’s getting long, but he hasn’t had the money to get it cut yet, nor the money to get bleach and return to the hairstyle it originally was, with the blonde sides cut short and a tuft of black over the middle. Now it’s just black all over, with a fringe hanging over his right eye.

“I wanna know your name,” the guy says, and he’s so close now that Frank can feel his breath on his lips, over his cheek. It smells like cigarettes and coffee, and something sweeter under that, sugary. Frank finds himself infatuated with it, wanting to taste it, attach his lips to the guy’s neck and not pull back until there’s a bruise.

“Frank,” he answers, slightly breathless and hoping his client doesn’t notice it.

He does though, if the low chuckle is anything to go by. “You look like you need a shower, Frank. A warm one.”

Frank suddenly becomes aware of the fact that he’s shivering, and rather badly at that. He’d forgotten, because this time a year, freezing is pretty much all he does. He only notices it when he gets sick, nowadays, and sometimes not even then, because when that happens he’s usually busy worrying about all the money he’s wasting on Theraflu.

“I would say no,” Frank admits. “Tell you that you’re wasting your time...”

“But you’re soaked, and you’re freezing,” the guy finishes.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Frank says, glancing down at his hands and his fingernails, which have taken on a sickly, purplish blue tint.

“So take a shower. Clean the accountant and his Honda off. We’ll still have time.”

“Okay,” Frank says faintly, eyes unfocused as he’s still finding it hard to believe that a client is offering him their shower. He finally organizes his thoughts though, and looks up at the guy. “I wanna know your name first, though.”

“Gerard,” the guy says, one side of his mouth crooking up in a small half-smile.

“Gerard,” Frank repeats, testing the syllables, letting them roll over his tongue and escape his mouth in a hushed voice, as if he’s talking to himself.

He grins up at Gerard then, and with a push of his toes their lips are connected. This seems to startle Gerard slightly, but his mouth relaxes beneath Frank’s quickly, just as his hand tightens at the back of Frank’s head. Meanwhile, Frank lets his arms wraps around Gerard’s neck, pulling him closer than he has any client ever before. He prefers to keep things strictly below the waist, but there’s something about Gerard that makes Frank throw every rule he’s ever set up straight out the window.

“Shower,” Gerard mumbles, pushing his thumbs through the belt loops on Frank’s jeans and tugging him in the direction of the bathroom.

Frank mumbles something unintelligible but approving and wraps his legs around Gerard’s waist as he lifts him up onto the counter. Gerard pushes off Frank’s jacket, letting it land with a clatter on the marble, before he lets his hands skim down Frank’s chest until they reach the hem of his t-shirt. He pulls if off, leaving Frank’s hair a mess. Frank does the same to Gerard, dropping his shirt to the floor before he runs his hands all over Gerard’s torso, up from his hips and back around to his shoulder blades.

“Fuck,” Frank moans as Gerard gets a hand down the front of his jeans, bucking up into the touch. “This is so, so – oh, _fuck_.”

Gerard grins, detaching his lips from Frank’s long enough to ask, “So what?” He sticks a hand into the shower to turn it on, leering at Frank as he waits for an answer.

“Just fuck me,” Frank begs, surprised at how fucking horny he is. It’s ridiculous, really, because Frank doesn’t even remember the last time a client managed to turn him on, but now that it’s happening, he’s definitely not going to let it go to waste. “Please, just fucking – fuck me.”

Gerard pulls Frank in for a kiss, which is more a wet collision of mouths than an actual kiss, but whatever, it works. “You wanted to shower, though, didn’t you?” he asks, and his voice is low and filthy, and Frank just can’t stop the moan building in his throat, so he lets it out, and it sounds even dirtier as it echoes off the tiles.

“Then fuck me in the goddamn shower, I don’t fucking care, just _get in me_ ,” Frank says, voice almost a growl, and it sends shiver down Gerard’s spine.

“Okay, okay,” he says breathlessly, pulling Frank down onto the floor so he can get his pants off. They come off easily; when you spend your nights sweating in strangers’ beds, you lose weight pretty quickly, and Frank’s jeans are old, so they’re a size or two too big.

Frank sends them skidding across the floor with a kick, then gets to work on Gerard’s jeans, which are fucking skintight, _goddammit, how do people get into these things_? Frank practically has to roll them down Gerard’s legs, which is just ridiculous, but it turns out Gerard’s going commando beneath them, and that totally makes up for the extra minutes spent on undressing.

“Fucking hell,” Frank says as he tugs he fabric down over Gerard’s hips, Gerard’s cock springing out from the tight confines of his pants and ending up right in Frank’s face. It takes all of Frank’s self-control not to just wrap his lips around it, lick at the head and sink down until it’s at the back of his throat, Gerard moaning above him as Frank swallows. He decides to focus on getting Gerard out of his jeans instead, or he’ll have Gerard blow his load before they even get in the shower.

“Come on,” Gerard says as soon as he’s stepped out of his pants, pulling Frank into the massive shower and pushing him up against the wall, chest pressed into the tiles. He attaches his mouth to Frank’s neck almost immediately, teeth grazing the scorpion tattoo there.

The proximity is making Gerard’s dick rub against Frank’s ass, the slide wet and hot as the water runs down their bodies, and it’s making them both shudder.

“Lube?” Gerard asks, running his hands down Frank’s sides and then looping his arms around his waist, holding him close, and Frank can’t help but marvel at how good it feels, to just be held. He doesn’t know what it is that makes him convinced of it, but Frank has a feeling that if he decided to just walk out right now, without taking his money, Gerard wouldn’t stop him, wouldn’t bitch at him for leaving him just in the middle of it all. Gerard, unlike most guys Frank has come across, would take no as answer.

But Frank doesn’t even want to think about saying no and walking away, because his hard-on is pressing against the tiles, and Gerard’s dick is rubbing up against his as, and he needs it inside him, _now_.

“Right back pocket,” Frank says, and he whines slightly as Gerard steps away to grab the sachet from Frank’s jeans.

Gerard is soon back behind him though, a lubed finger teasing at Frank’s hole. Frank pushes down onto it, desperate for something, _anything_. Gerard seems to pick up on this, because he pushes a second finger inside quicker than he normally would, and though it makes Frank’s breath hitch a little, it’s exactly what he needs; for now, at least.

“Please, Gerard, just – _fuuuuck_.”

Gerard grins; he has three fingers inside Frank now, stretching and probing, and it’s when Frank lets out a satisfied howl, his whole body slumping and relaxing, that Gerard knows he’s found his prostate.

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” Frank says, stressing every word because he’s practically been ready ever since he set a foot inside Gerard’s hotel room.

Gerard pulls out his fingers, rolls down the condom he found together with the lube in Frank’s jeans, then pushes in, slow and careful.

Frank’s hands scrabble for purchase on the slippery wall, but it’s not until Gerard puts his own over them that they stay still. “Fuck yeah,” he moans as Gerard slides fully inside.

“So fucking tight,” Gerard pants in Frank’s ear, rocking in and out with a steady pace.

Frank wants to tell Gerard that he’s huge, and that’s why Frank feels so tight, but he doesn’t, because he pretty much lost all his ability to speak as soon as the head of Gerard’s cock pressed inside him. He manages several moans and expletives, but that’s about it.

“Gonna fuck you into the fucking mattress later,” Gerard says, voice sultry and breathless. “Slowly, make you wait for it. You’d do that for me? Wait? Not come until I tell you?”

“Yes,” Frank grits out, rocking back against Gerard, driving him deeper. Then, surprising even himself, he says, “Anything for you.”

It’s stupid of Frank to think that Gerard is somehow different from his other clients; he knows that. But yet he can’t stop thinking that Gerard is not your regular john, but something else entirely. For one, no one has ever offered Frank a shower, hotel room or not. But there’s more than that, something else that Frank doesn’t really know what it is, only that it’s there and it’s making him feel all warm and bubbly.

He feels Gerard grin against the back of his neck, mumbling, “Anything, huh?”

Frank feels stupid, but then Gerard kisses his way from Frank’s neck up to his lips, and he can’t help but mumble back, “Anything.”

“Okay,” Gerard says, and there’s something ominous in his voice that Frank isn’t sure he likes. “You can’t come until we’re in bed.”

Frank shudders at just the thought of holding off now, but he nods, desperately trying to ignore his hard-on rubbing against the tiles.

“You’re gonna do that for me?” Gerard asks, lips brushing Frank’s shoulder, licking at the waters droplets there.

“Yes, fuck, god,” Frank says through clenched teeth.

“Eloquent,” Gerard sniggers, but he’s reduced to a blubbering mess pretty soon, too. He bends Frank over and fucks him hard and fast, and Frank is thankful in one way and sad in another, because it means less friction for his painfully hard dick.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Gerard moans as he comes inside Frank, cock pulsing as Frank clenches around him. He lets out a string of expletives as he comes down and then pushes Frank up against the wall again, but this time with his back against it, so Gerard can kiss him properly.

“So good,” Gerard whispers against Frank’s lips. “So good for me.”

“For you,” Frank says, slightly dazed with how much he needs to get off. He doesn’t try anything though, just stays pliant and warm in Gerard’s arms, kissing him as if his life depends on it.

“Come on,” Gerard says then, pulling Frank out of the shower and handing him a towel. They dry themselves, and then, because Frank’s hair is all wet and messy and his cheeks are flushed from the heat of the water, Gerard just has to push him up against the door and kiss him again.

“Bed,” Frank says between kisses, already out of breath. He’s toeing the line between pleasure in pain, and would like to get off as soon as possible, preferably with Gerard’s dick in his ass.

“I think you’re overestimating me,” Gerard chuckles, but he walks Frank into the bedroom, pushing him down on the bed and crawling on top of him.

“I really want to punch you right now,” Frank says, bucking up against Gerard. “But more than that I want you to just fucking _touch_ _me_.”

“What about I blow you, instead?” Gerard says, moving down and pressing kisses to Frank’s chest and stomach, until he reaches his dick.

“Not gonna last,” Frank says, and he almost blows his load right then, when Gerard wraps his hand around his cock, but it would be lame if he comes before Gerard even gets his mouth around his dick, so he holds himself off.

It almost happens again when Gerard finally does take Frank in his mouth, but once again, Frank manages to hold back, but only barely.

And seriously, someone should get him a fucking award for not coming yet, because Frank doesn’t think he’s ever gotten such a good blowjob as the one Gerard gives him. Okay, sure, so Frank usually isn’t on the receiving end, but he’s still had is fair share of them, mostly from guilt-ridden clients who feel the need to reciprocate after Frank gets them off, but no one has ever done it as well as Gerard.

He’s got this thing that he does with his tongue, and Frank has no idea what it is, only that it’s probably illegal, and that if isn’t then it should be, because it’s just so ridiculously good. Seriously, Gerard should patent it or something. He’d make millions.

Then there’s just the simple fact that with his lips all red and wet, glistening with spit as he bobs his head up and down Frank’s dick, Gerard looks absolutely _obscene_. He’s the picture of debauchery, eyes glazed over with lust and cheeks red with the heat, short hair stringy with sweat. Frank runs his hand through it, eliciting a moan from Gerard, which vibrates around Frank’s dick and sends shivers up his spine.

“Fuck, Gerard, gonna – _oh_ _my_ _god_ ,” Frank says as he comes down Gerard’s throat. Gerard swallows it all, except for a little that he lets dribble over his lips and down his chin. Frank is one hundred percent sure it’s deliberate, because although they haven’t known each other for even an hour, Gerard seems to know Frank’s every kink.

Frank can’t make himself bitch about it though, because Gerard looks so completely fucked out that it’s impossible to do anything but stare, and then lick his come off Gerard’s lips. It’s not the dirtiest thing Frank’s done, far from it, but it feels like it is, probably just because it’s Gerard. Frank knows it’s ridiculous, but he’s never been much for trying to ignore the truth, no matter how illogical and just plain stupid it may be.

“That was…” Gerard begins, but Frank interrupts him immediately.

“Heavenly,” he says, grinning like a madman at the ceiling. “Divine, outstanding, extraordinary. Fucking – _sinful_. Your mouth, I swear to god.”

“So I could give you a run for you money, then?” Gerard grins as they slip beneath the covers.

Frank sinks into the mattress, not really sure he’s still alive, because he can’t feel his body, can’t feel _anything_ but the remains of his orgasm and the fatigue washing over him.

“Fuck, you’d make go out of business,” Frank says, because seriously, if Gerard would reprioritize, he’d be on the high-end of the scale in no time.

Gerard laughs, short but honest, and then rolls over, moving closer to Frank, attaching himself to his side, one arm slung over his chest. His hand instinctively moves up to the tattoo on Frank’s chest, the flame with the word ‘hope’ written beneath, right over his heart. He wanted to ask about it as soon as he saw it, when Frank pulled off his shirt in the bathroom, but he’d figured they could wait with the existential conversations until after all the fucking and sucking.

He traces the letters with his fingertips, brushes his thumb over the flame. “Hope, huh?”

Frank puts his hand over Gerard’s on his chest, pressing it against his heart. “It’s all we’ve got, at the end of the day,” he says, glancing at Gerard. “What do you hope for?”

He doesn’t know why he asks, probably shouldn’t do it, but he can’t help it. He just wants to know everything there is to know about Gerard. He wants to wake up in the morning with Gerard in the bed beside him, so he can wrap his arms around him and kiss him good morning, and then goodbye as he leaves for work (not turning tricks, but actual work), and then he wants to come home, and find Gerard there, doing whatever it is he does with his life. He wants to kiss him and make them dinner while Gerard picks a movie, and then they’ll eat in front of the TV, only to go to bed once it’s over to fuck or just sleep, tangled in each other.

“Not a lot, really,” Gerard says, looking up at Frank, meeting his eyes. “Right now, I hope that you’ll spend the night here, with me, in this bed, if only to just sleep. I hope that you’ll still be here when I wake up. I hope… I hope you won’t leave, once the morning comes. I hope you’ll stay.”

“I can’t – ”

“I know,” Gerard says, interrupting Frank with a warm look. “But you said hope is all we’ve got. I can only hope.”

Frank is quiet for a minute, before he says, “I wish I could.”

“Hope? Or fulfill mine?”

“Both.”

Gerard slides his hand across Frank’s stomach, over to where Frank’s hand is resting on the sheets. He takes it in his, intertwining their fingers. “Me too.”


End file.
